


Five times Clint walked in on Nat and one time he didn't

by Builder



Series: Creedless Assassins [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, F/M, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Natasha Romanov, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-24 01:37:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20018125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: The first time Clint walks in on her, he doesn’t actually see anything.  Nat manages to fling herself sideways as soon as she hears the door open, and she does a passable pantomime of sitting on the bathmat picking at her toenails.  Clint either doesn’t notice or doesn’t comment on the sour haze of vomit and shower steam hanging in the air.  He does say something doltish like “huh?” or “the fuck?”  Nat flips him off, and he leaves her alone.  Or at least that’s how she remembers it.





	Five times Clint walked in on Nat and one time he didn't

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr @builder051

The first time Clint walks in on her, he doesn’t actually see anything. Nat manages to fling herself sideways as soon as she hears the door open, and she does a passable pantomime of sitting on the bathmat picking at her toenails. Clint either doesn’t notice or doesn’t comment on the sour haze of vomit and shower steam hanging in the air. He does say something doltish like “huh?” or “the fuck?” Nat flips him off, and he leaves her alone. Or at least that’s how she remembers it.

The second time isn’t all that different, except that there are trails of red slushie dripping down Nat’s chin and the side of the toilet bowl. 

“Is that blood?” Clint asks from the doorway, looking halfway between concerned and disgusted. 

“Nope.” Nat wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then the porcelain with her fingertips. “Now get the fuck out.”

Clint doesn’t need telling twice. He asks Nat if she’s ok once she emerges, pink-eyed and gulpy, but after a growled “fine,” he leaves her to be the one swearing under her breath.

A handful of years go by before it happens a third time. Clint has Laura now, and they’ve got a bun in the oven. Nat’s happy for them, but a tiny piece of her worries that things will be different now. 

She’s proven right when he walks up behind her and softly rubs her shoulder. Clint’s almost certainly had a crash course in vomiting women. Nat isn’t sure how she feels about that.

“Nat,” he whispers. 

She bristles and pulls her fingers out of her mouth, cringing as the sour taste flows across her tongue. “What?”

Clint audibly breathes in and out, as if he’s looking for words to suck out of the air. “What’re you doing?” he asks quietly.

“Noting,” Nat spits.

“Nope. Try again.”

Nat sighs. “Nothing you need to know about.”

“Fuck it, Nat.” Frustration rises in Clint’s voice. Nat wonders if he’s going to yell. For a second she feels for Laura; if he’s that way at home, there are almost certainly problems. Their relationship is different though. Besides the obvious lack of romance, there’s an added gruffness. An added softness, too, Nat thinks. The whole thing is more explosive and contemptuous; it swings higher from pole to pole.

“You… You can’t do this.”

Nat can’t tell if he sounds more disappointed or concerned. Either way, the mission is in jeopardy. There’s no way tonight’s scheduled stakeout is going to go well with tension spread so thickly between them.

“Well,” Nat says. “You can’t stop me.”

There’s a long silence. “Yeah,” Clint hisses between his teeth. “Actually I can.”

“Try me.” It’s all Nat can do not to reach up and deck him. In that moment, she hates him. She’d kill him with her bare hands if she thought she could get away with it.

“Don’t worry,” Clint says in a saccharine voice. “I will.”

He doesn’t, though. The mission takes a strange turn, and all things personal are wiped from their minds by the time the jet lands. 

Clint slides the mission report paperwork across the table with a pointed, “Anything else you want to add?”

“Nope,” Nat says without looking up, popping her lips loudly on the P. “Not a thing.”

Fury happens to be in the room, and he gives them a disdainful stair from behind his desk. “You sure about that, Romanov?” the boss man asks.

“Yup.” Nat makes a mental note to pound Clint the next time they’re alone together, missions be damned. Unlike him, she intends to make good on her promise.

Clint still has a black eye when he walks in on her the fourth time. Nat has a feeling he does it on purpose. It’s her fault for being so obvious, throwing caution to the wind with Laura’s baby shower in progress in the living room.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Clint pulls the door shut and squats at her shoulder, his elbows resting on the edge of the toilet seat. “You can’t just– In my house–”

Nat could make excuses if she thought he’d believe her. “I’m sorry,” or “I didn’t mean it.” She really doesn’t mean it; the cupcake had been glaring at her from across the room until she finally caved and ate it. She left the thing stewing in her stomach for a full fifteen minutes while she leered at the other guests, waiting on the edge of her seat until the stupid guessing game finished so she could flee to the bathroom.

“Why are you doing this?” Clint pulls a length of toilet paper from th roll and wipes Nat’s mouth for her, holding the makeshift rag aloft when Nat tries to snag it from his grip. 

“Because,” Nat croaks. She wishes she could divest the acidic hoarseness from her voice. It makes her sound weak. Sick. Maybe a bit diabolical, which of course, she is, but the only evil plots she carries out are against herself.

“Not good enough.” Clint stands and leans against the bathroom door, letting her know that he intends to lock her in. Ostensibly until the conversation is finished. To Nat, it already is. But he seems to have other plans.

“I don’t know.” Nat shrugs. “It’s just a thing I do. It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“Yeah, it does have to do with me,” Clint shoots back. “When you do it around me. When you do it around my family. I mean, what’re you gonna do when the baby comes, huh? What’re you gonna do then? What if it’s a girl?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.” Clint crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you think you’re fat or something?”

Nat gets a mental flash of Laura standing in front of the mirror, half-clothed in maternity jeans and nothing else, decrying her newly bulbous figure. The woman isn’t shallow, but she’s only human. “Clint.” Nat shakes her head. She flushes the toilet, then spends an uncomfortable moment stewing as she waits for it to finish draining. “Sometimes you’re really stupid, you know that?”

“Yeah.” It’s part bark, part sigh. “My goddam pregnant wife reminds me of it about twelve times a day. The least you could do is be there for me, partner. You think this whole thing doesn’t stress me out? You’re not the only person to ever have a bad day, Nat. You don’t own…” He trails off, stuttering as he grapples for words. Nat wonders if he’s going to cry, but he finally settles. “Sorrow.”

Nat scoffs. “Sorrow? You want me to apologize? That it?”

Clint bites his lip.

“Fine.” Nat stands up. “I’m really fucking sorry, Clint. Ok? Is that what you wanted?”

This time he does start to cry. Clint angrily swipes at his cheeks. “No,” he croaks. “Fuck you.” He points at Nat with one shaking finger. Then he turns and opens the door. He pauses like he might say something else, but a second passes, and then he’s gone.

The door shuts with a click, and Nat stumbles backward until her head connects with the wall. “Shit,” she breathes. “Shit.” 

She waits for the vertigo swirling around her ears to tamp down, then throws herself forward onto her knees again and gags until there isn’t even bile left.

The fifth time it happens, neither of them speak. Nat’s in the single stall of the men’s room in the back of some dingy bar upstate, spewing up warm beer and french fries. One hand presses deftly at the back of her throat; the other kneads her bloated stomach.

She recognizes Clint’s walk, the sound of his footsteps bouncing off the dirty tile and echoing throughout the room. The door’s locked, but barely, and it only takes one well-timed tug for him to yank it open and reveal her sorry state. 

Clint sighs once, then grabs a handful of the back of Nat’s shirt. He spins her around, kisses her forehead, and offers his sleeve. Nat dabs her lips, then cocks her head questioningly. 

Clint flicks his eyes upward toward the camera illegally recording them from the stained ceiling. 

Nat smirks and throws her arms around his neck, careful to leave a dank, slimy handprint across his collar and the back of his head.

“Hmph.” Clint exhales his frustration, then drags her back into the front of the bar.

The next day, Laura’s water breaks, and Clint sprints out of their sparring session with the paddle target still swinging from one wrist. Nat half expected an invitation to the hospital. She and Laura are friends after all, regardless of what’s going on between her and Clint, but now Nat sees the truth, the invisible power dynamic between their nesting set of couples, and it makes her sick.

She takes her time as she ambles through the locker room, letting venom seethe up into her esophagus until she’s swallowing down bile. Nat goes straight to the shower, fully clothed, and turns the water on full blast. She would’ve gone to the toilet stall if she just planned on throwing up, but it takes a little more to drown out the sound of her tears.


End file.
